


Clawing at the clouds

by Fayet



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Flying, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, People who are bad at communication, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Space Flight, X-Wing(s), all the X-Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5893519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fayet/pseuds/Fayet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being trained to take orders and operate within unyielding structures life in the Resistance is utter, incomprehensible chaos to Finn. Learning to navigate his new environment while recovering from his injuries would be bad enough. It doesn't help that the only person he knows on this new planet remains elusive high above the clouds, chasing the enemy while running - or rather, flying - away from his own issues. </p><p>He needs to come up with something new if he ever wants to talk to Poe, it seems. And where there's a will there's always a way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chaos

The first thing that confuses him are the walls. They aren't black or white, and there is no chrome in sight. He blinks, slowly feeling his way through his clouded mind and endlessly tired body. Dozens of places hurt, but some don't, and these worry him most. 

He has no idea where he could be. Closing his eyes again - not because he's terribly tired, no, just because he has to listen, or so he tells himself - he concentrates on listening, searching for familiar noises. The constant hum of machines is missing, just like the very slow gliding movement of a large ship in space. Instead he hears the strange sounds of technical equipment - medical equipment? - and from time to time the hiss of engines above the building. Spaceships flying in and out of a base, then. These are no TIE fighters, not even the newer generation. It's something else, rumbling engines with much more power, but he can't place them yet. 

Blinking he takes in the room, and only on a third glance realises that the blob of orange at the foot of his bed, slightly off to the right side, isn't a smear of colour on the wall, but rather a humanoid being. 

He blinks again, but nothing changes. 

It's definitely a guy, there, slumped in what looks like a rather uncomfortable chair. If he's supposed to be a guard he's failed enormously and should rightly be executed, because guards don't fall asleep while on duty. And this guy is decidedly out like a light, and on a second glance not even armed. No guard, then. But what else? 

Straining his eyes he tries to focus, get a better look without moving. Moving, it seems, is out of the question as the pain flares up in his body with even the slightest hint of physical strain, such as turning his head. He stares, feeling the exhaustion welling up again. 

Decidedly not a guard. But there is something soldierly about this guy, and after a few minutes he figures out that it's the flight overall that gives that air, in that horrific orange that suits nobody in the entire galaxy. But what a lax fashion to wear a military issued piece of uniform like that - opened at the front, halfway shrugged off, it's long arms trailing on the ground and only the trousers being properly in place. The guy is wearing a black t-shirt and enough bruises on his arms to match up with the colour - dark spots on tanned skin. He is stretched out, boots off, feet in dark socks propped up on the very end of the bed, inches away from his own toes. The heavy boots are probably underneath the chair, kicked off with a terrible lack of discipline, but out of sight right now. There is a strange mass of metal in his lap, looking like a ball someone discarded, and that doesn't make more sense than anything else, so it fits right in. He can't concentrate on the face, sees only exhausted human features and dark hair in need of a trim. 

This is very confusing. He blinks once more, keeps his eyes closed for a moment.There's the smell of disinfectant in the air, and another rumble of engines above him. He opens his eyes again. 

The human blob of orange is still there, unmoving. Someone put a pillow under the guys' head, probably to prevent him from waking up with a stiff neck. From the compact look of it it's the same currently under his own head, but he isn't sure. 

He focuses in the dim light again, his head suddenly feeling light from the strain on his eyes. He can't lift his head, he realises. 

Fatalistic thoughts race into his mind, but he's immediately distracted when he notices that the sleeping not-guard actually holds a droid in his lap. It's round, and with it's orange and white exterior fits right into its surrounding and the terrible colour of the flight suit. There's a rotund thing on top of the main body, like a small head, and it's sunk forward at the moment. For all the world it seems the droid is in power-saving mode, as it's lenses are dark and empty. Tipped slightly forward it seems to lean into the slouching guy, almost like - he doesn't find a comparison. But he has never seen a droid do something like that. Or a human do something like that, for that matter. Droids are simply machines, smart sometimes, sure, programmed to fly and shoot and hit, but beyond that? He's never spoken to a droid before. But there's a distinct nagging somewhere in his mind where a series of bleeps and whirs tugs at the corners of his consciousness. 

It doesn't make sense. There is no pattern to his thoughts, and whenever he reaches into them they stay for a short second between his fingers and then slip away again like sand between his hands. He doesn't know why he's thinking of sand, either. Sand doesn't make sense. He's never been in the desert, he's pretty sure of that. If he can be sure of anything anymore. 

Another ship seems to glide into the base - or place, or spaceport, or whatever - and again loud engines roar above him. The sound is growing, slowly vibrating through the room, until its ebbs away. 

The guy in the chair moves, slightly. But he only stirs in his sleep, moving his arms around the droids round main body. The droid immediately snaps from its power-save-mode and whirs silently. It seems to check its surrounding, its lenses coming to life. 

He snaps his eye shut, silently hoping nobody notices he was awake. It immediately carries him back to memories - of trying to look very much asleep in barracks after being awake too blatantly after curfew, of the fear of punishment if a single limb moves when it isn't supposed to. He used to be great at being perfectly unmoving. But he doesn't have to worry about that right now, as his body is a foreign being, immune to the commands of his nerves, slightly vibrating with pain but nothing else. 

Done with its inspection the droid seems to nestle once more against the sleeping man, and its lenses goes dark again. Only the slight whirring remains, dropping in frequency, suddenly sounding utterly soothing. Without knowing why he understands that it means something positive, meant to be relaxing, indicating that the droid is - whatever. 

Has he gone crazy? He sure has. Maybe he's trapped in his head, gliding into insanity before they dispose of him. That must be it. Yes. The last resources his mind has engaged to give him some final images before it all is over for good. 

He just doesn't know why it had to be these images. He never wasted much time to think about last moments, but at least he thought he'd see something familiar. Not a room he has never been in before, with a sleeping soldier lacking even the basic discipline and a strange droid. 

But he has never been able to do anything about most things anyway, so giving in comes naturally. It doesn't take long until he drifts off into heavy unconsciousness again, with the regular thunder of engines above him and the strangely comforting mechanical purr coming from the droid. 

When he resurfaces the next time he's a bit less confused. The room remains the same, but his body seems slightly less heavy, and now he's sure that there's some medication in his blood pulling him under again and again. He can't say he minds, preferring deep sleep to the lingering threat of a world of pain underneath it. 

But he can move his head a bit easier now, and blinking doesn't feel so dry and there's less cold in his hands. He can feel his hands again, too, but doesn't bother moving them. 

The noises are still the same, too. The constant whirr of medical equipment, combined with the noise of spaceships slowly sinking lower for touchdown. Gone is the droid and its purr, but not the guy who-was-not-a-guard. 

He's still there - no, more likely there again. He's still wearing that orange flight suit, unzipped almost all the way down to his hips, this time with a white t-shirt underneath that looks slightly cleaner than the one before. And he's asleep again, in the same chair, legs this time simply stretched out in front of him, boots in place. His slack hands hold a large datapad. The bruises on his arms seem to have healed, but he still looks terrible, exhausted even in his sleep. But his breathing is deep and relaxed, on the border of a light snore. The whole situation looks deeply uncomfortable, and this time the sleeper doesn't have a pillow to stop him from a very uncomfortable awakening. 

Should he say something? He ponders this question for a long time. Later he wonders why he hasn't slipped into any kind of panic at that point, why he hasn't started to plan an escape. Somehow he feels strangely safe. If they had wanted to kill him they could have done so already, and much more easier. But the medical equipment, the smell of bactha in the air, mixed with disinfectant - no, this just reeks of effort. Someone tried and succeeded in keeping him alive. For whatever reasons. 

That he would probably find out if he could just wake up the snoring man at the foot of his bed. 

He coughs. Twice. As loud as he can and as loud as his very dry and painfully rough throat allows for. 

Nothing happens. 

He tries again, but the pain flaring up in his throat isn't quite encouraging further efforts. 

And he isn't successful either. 

Then he tries a few different sounds. Slight hissing, another cough, nothing works. When he realises that he probably could just say something his throat is reduced to painfully raw flesh and his voice refuses to obey his commands. Great, another part of his body hating him now. 

He doesn't expect sudden assistance in his efforts, and he's pretty sure nobdy could have heard him. But suddenly there are quick steps outside of the room, a sharp knock on the door and the sound of the hydraulic sliding the panel away. 

The only thing he now knows for sure is that the man in the chair does have some kind of fighting background, because it takes years of training and battle in your blood to go from dead asleep to sharp alertness in seconds. He springs up from his chair, and it seems he needs a few confused blinks to register the guy in the orange flight suit sauntering into the room as one of his fellow - soldiers? Whatever. 

"I knew you'd be there. Take-off in 20, and you nowhere to be found. Tired?"

The other guy is only slightly taller than the man, and looks only slightly less exhausted. 

"Isn't everybody these days. I guess I checked on Finn and then dozed off."

The name stays in his mind, circling around its vaults like a feather in an invisible airstream. Finn. He's heard that before. Then he remembers that he forgot to shut his eyes, and he does it as slowly as possible not to attract attention. The dialogue continues in the dark now, simply voices and sounds. His mind fails him to supply the correct images, sadly. 

"Did you get any sleep since you came in with the freighter last night?"

There is no answer, but he imagines the first man shook his head, because the second voice sounds disgruntled. 

"Listen, pal. You gotta rest. I know you've been through a lot lately, but you're not immortal. You think you are, and we want to believe it, too, but you're not. Nobody here is. And we can't afford to loose another one, clear?"

Movement, maybe a hand dragged through dark stubborn hair. 

"Are you giving orders now, Snap?"

The other man sighs dramatically. "Sometimes I think it wouldn't be too bad. No, Commander, I don't."

A sound of a hand on a shoulder, a good-heartened slap. 

"No worries, I appreciate your concern. Nothing we can do about current affairs, though. Let's go and get up there. Seen my droid?"

Movement, feet in heavy boots on the floor. The door slides open again. 

"Sure, sits next to Black One and waits anxiously for you. Just like your ship and your squadron, might I say."

He hears the laugh, just before the door closes. "Never let an X-Wing wait, right? They take it by heart." Now both men laugh, and their steps vanish down the corridor. He's alone again with the whirr of medical equipment and his thoughts.

He picks through the information and puts together what he learned. He doesn't notice sleep creeping up to him again, turning the name around in his head. Finn, Finn, there's something about that. 

It's not until sleep holds him fast in its soft but merciless grip that suddenly the pieces click into place. Finn, Finn, of course, he knows now. He falls into unconsciousness with a small smile on his lips and the thunder of X-Wing engines echoing through his mind.


	2. With everything discovered just waiting to be known

The third time he pulls himself up from the pool of dark sleep the pain wakes up with him. He opens his eyes to blinding light and searing pain, pulsing through his spine, making every vertebra vibrate. His mind screams at him to fall asleep again, right now, but it doesn't happen. 

The only thing he can do is to close his eyes, snapping them shut against the light and reality hitting him like a brick. He has a name. It seems to be printed against the inner walls of his eyelids, next to the images of carnage and destruction he had caused. Flashes of blaster fire pulse through his mind, and the images are racing by. Cool light in a gliding Destroyer. Flashes of phaser light illuminating the darkness of space. Fire from a destroyed TIE fighter. Hot sand reflecting the burning heat. Blue skies on D'Qar. A flight through darkness. The sudden clinical light in Starkiller Base. And then snow, white and soft, blindingly painful. And then the images repeat itself, flashing in front of his eyes, faster and faster.

"Breathe."

The voice is soft but holds enough power to weave its way through the maze of images. It's not a request, and he has learned to follow orders. Gasping he draws in air. 

"Good. Keep on breathing. It's over, for now. Breathe."

He obeys. Slowly his breathing returns to a normal pattern, and with it the pain retreats into the outer corners of his limbs. It's no longer pulsing but only a slight burn, tugging at his spinal cord. The smell of bactha nearly knocks him out when cool droid hands slide over his limbs. 

He keeps his eyes firmly closed. 

Suddenly he is enclosed in warmth, and the images in front of his eyes change. There is still the cool light in the Destroyer, but now he isn't alone. His hand is wrapped around an arm clad in leather, and he's dragging a bloodied prisoner down a hallway, towards freedom instead of an execution. There is still the burning sand of the desert in Jakku, but this time he's running and following, Rey's back in front of him, the whirring sound of BB-8 somewhere next to him. The sky above D'Qar is still blue, but there is chaos on the tarmac and someone jumping from a black X-Wing. It is when Poe's hands touch his shoulders in his mental image that he hears the voice again. 

"Much better, no? Wake up, Finn."

And he obeys. They have dimmed the light. It's less harsh, less painful now. He blinks against it, finally focusing on the Meddroid whirring around the bed he is stretched out on, and his visitor. 

General Organa sits on a chair very close to his pillow, and he thinks he must die on the very spot when he realises she's holding one of his hands. He can't even salute. A general by his bedside and he can't salute. They should have disposed of him years ago.

She smiles, keeping his fingers in her warm hands. 

"Don't worry, you will feel your way around our structures. We are different here." 

Above them a ship takes off, dark rumble as background music to her words. 

"How do you feel?"

He tries to say something, but his throat is too dry. With a nod from General Organa one of the Meddroids zips closer, a glass of water in its mechanical arm. He drinks without protest. The water is clear and cool, soothing his throat. He's thirsty, he realises. 

She continues to smile at him. 

"You will have to tell me everything about your encounter with - " She stops for a second, her smile unfaltering but a little bit pained. " - with Kylo Ren later. I want you to know that you held your own surprisingly well. We're all very proud of you. Now be our guest and rest, and then you can decide how you want to continue your journey."

She pushes the chair back, its feet scraping over the floor. He can't quite comprehend what she said, but he's desperate to ask two questions before she leaves, and he manages to get the words out. 

"Rey?"

Her smile broadens. 

"Alive, and well. She brought you back here. The map is completed, and she's looking for Luke Skywalker. Do not worry about her."

Relief is flooding him and he can't help but smile. Rey is alive. Rey is alive. 

General Organa pats his shoulder. He gathers his strength for the second question, and now she laughs and points towards the ceiling, meaning the sky and space itself.

"Commander Dameron is up and about. He spent some time watching your sleep, but we have a lot to do these days. We need our pilots in their ships. But things will slow down, soon. And I am sure he will visit you as soon as he can. But you should rest now."

With that she leaves him to lie back and stare at the ceiling and drowse off again while the Meddroid inserts a needle into his arm and takes his temperature and washes his face. 

He sleeps a lot in the next days, drifting in and out of it with the certain knowledge that they gave him something to help him get through the first weeks after his injury has been mended. He doesn't know for sure, but it feels as if his back is one single wound. Whenever he is awake he is on fire, pain burning through his body. He uses every breathing technique he's ever learned to cope with it, but sometimes it leaves him on the brink of tears and desperation. 

All the time ships are roaring in and out of base, and he can image the tarmac being controlled chaos again. Maybe he has visitors when he's asleep - sometimes he think there's someone in an orange flight suit slumped into exhausted sleep at the foot of his bed - but he isn't sure. He wakes up in irregular intervals. Sometimes he's awake for full nights, sometimes for mere minutes during the day. 

Then he starts to be awake for longer periods of time. He starts to move his hands, his neck, his feet. He can feel and move his legs, and he's surprised when the cool and detached Meddroids pump into each other in a celebratory way after he figures that out and wiggles his toes for the first time.

Being awake means longer periods of lying around, uselessly. There is nothing he can do but stay in bed. So he follows the happenings on base through the air traffic above him. From listening he notices that there are less freighters coming in, and the thundering X-Wings are off for longer periods of time. While they used to take off three or five at a time now they often leave and come in on their own, and soon he can recognize various changes in their landing approach and identify single ships. Someone always comes in incredibly low, the engine thunder rattling the Meddroid's metal bodies, which annoys them to no end. There's another X-Wing that's incredibly silent, seemingly gliding down with the engines almost shut-down. One day a ship comes in that is audibly heavily damaged, and he thinks he can hear shouts and rushing in the corridor as the base prepares for a controlled crash-landing. But nobody comes into the intensive care units in the medbay afterwards, to he figures it has to be fine. 

In his dreams he now rushes through space. Sometimes it starts off with their escape from the Finalizer in the stolen TIE fighter, and ends in their desert crash. All his desperation comes crushing down on Finn in these dreams, almost paralyzing him, leaving hot tears in his eyes when he wakes up. But sometimes it doesn't end in fire and pain. Sometimes there is no shooting, and just the soothing darkness of space, and the TIE fighter shoots through it. The ship changes, often, and then it's not a TIE fighter he is sitting in but something else, and Poe is guiding them through space in an exhilarating flight. He wakes up from these dreams with a smile.

Of course it has to be one of these occasions that he wakes up and there's Poe besides his bed. It takes him a moment to understand that the pilot from his dream suddenly is there in real flesh, and even longer before he realises that he's staring at him with a stupid grin on his face. But Poe smiles broadly in return, only slightly less stupid than Finn himself. 

"Good morning, comrade. Had a pleasant dream?"

He can't help but nod. His voice returned days ago, but he isn't using it a lot. The Meddroids chatter in binary and sometimes in basic, but there's not much point in telling them long stories. 

"Yeah - I was flying." He's surprised to hear that his vocal cords seem to function properly again.

Poe leans forward, elbows on his knees, and his eyes lighten up. "Now that's something I can relate to. What ship?"

He seems genuinely interesting in knowing that, and it's the first taste of something Finn will have to get used to. Pilots love talking about space ships, after all. Not quite a surprise, if he thinks about it. 

"In the beginning a TIE fighter, and then, I don't know. It changes."

Poe nods expertly. "And you like it? Maybe you should become a pilot."

That thought has circled through his mind, too, while listening to the ships in the past days. But that's not the gist of his dream. 

"Actually you are flying. I'm just your along for the ride."

He sounds a little bit sheepishly, as if that's something he shouldn't confess. But the smile on Poe's face remains. 

"Fair enough. So you should come and fly with me one day." 

He sits up a bit straighter again, and Finn notices that he's not wearing anything orange. He seems to be off-duty, dressed in a grey shirt and dark trousers, very much like the things he wore when Finn picked him up in the Finalizer. Still tired looking, but minus the blood on his face. And minus the jacket. The one that got ruined by Kylo Ren. Thinking about it he thinks he can feel the lightsaber cut through the leather again, and he shudders. 

"Considering I put in that many flight hours recently - hey, are you okay?"

Honest concern is in Poe's warm voice, and Finn only shakes his head quickly. There is no need why anyone should worry. 

"No, it's fine, just - the injuries. And - I'm so sorry I ruined your jacket."

He's fine, he really is, and there is no reason his voice should suddenly sound this strained. And of course Poe notices. He leans forward again, and pats Finn's shin through the blanket, which simply is the nearest bodypart he can reach from his chair. And probably the only one that doesn't hurt too much right now. 

"Hey, no, it's alright. I gave it to someone who can fix it. You'll have it back. Won't be perfect, but will always remind you of the great deeds you did. If you want it back, that is."

There's a question in his raised eyebrow, but Finn can only concentrate of the soothing weight of the hand on his shin. 

"Yes, yes, but - "

He is shushed with another pat on the shin. "It is your jacket after all, remember? I'm just happy you didn't die in it."

Suddenly the strain on Finn's throat seems to lift, and he can breathe again. 

"You didn't die in it either."

Now Poe laughs again. "Thanks to you, if you care to remember. I wanted to - "

The hydraulic sliding open the doors interrupts him. Into the room marches a human looking woman, long hair braided away from her face, in that terrible orange suit. It doesn't suit her either, but her eyes are sparkling and her whole presence seems to flood the room. 

"Hey, Flyboy - " She stops midsentence and stares at Finn. "The hero's awake! Now that's a surprise. We haven't met yet, have we?"

She confidently walks forward up to the bed and grins down at Finn. There's open pleasure in her face, but also enough of a smirk to make it obvious that she's a fast thinker and not to mess with. 

Stopping next to Poe she bends forward and extends a slightly dirty hand. Her other hand rests on Poe's shoulder as she leans over him.

"Shake hands? I'm Pava, Jess, Testor, whatever. Callsign Blue Three. Pilot, obviously."

Poe looks up, rolling his eyes. "Not sure if he should strain himself just to get his hands dirty on you, Jess."

She slaps down on his shoulder heartily, earning a groan in return. "Not your business, honey. Our hero can decide for himself if he wants to shake hands with a measly pilot or not."

The amusement in her voice is open and honest, and Finn makes the effort to prop himself up on his elbows and carefully shake her hand. He's surprised her grip is gentle as soon as they touch hands. 

"Pleasure. I'm Finn." 

She let's go of her hand and straightens. "I know, dear. Everyone knows. You saved our old boy here, after all, and completed what he had messed up. Without you he'd be fried meat and we'd be one leader down."

Poe's eyebrows rise slightly. "I'm not sure if I'm supposed to be hurt or not."

Patting his shoulder again she looks down at him. "You got your kriffin' X-Wing blown-up on Jakku, you should be on your knees begging for forgiveness. If I were General Organa I'd never let you near a ship again, your habit to get them fried is absolutely appalling."

Poe groans and massages his temple in a lovely display of desperation mixed with real sadness. "Rub it in, will you. That one was a particular loss, it had such a great sharp acceleration. I really liked it."

She pats his head in mock comfort. "There, there. I got something that will make it better." Her voice is suddenly syrupy-sweet, and the horrified look on Poe's face is enough to make Finn grin again. He knows suddenly that he's watching a well-rehearsed conversation, friendly banter that has happened before and will happen again. It makes his stomach ache for something that he can't give a name to yet. 

Jess continues to pat Poe's dark hair like one would a lost puppy. "Lucky for you I need to fly a freighter out of here in an hour, and I still need a co-pilot. You could redeem your terrible record and make up for giving us such a shock last week."

Jerking his head back Poe growls. "I'm on my day off!"

"You can get a day off when you're dead." She sounds serious. 

"Are you taking the piss? I got one day off after weeks of flying and you want me to co-pilot a kriffin' freighter?" He emphasises the word 'co-pilot' that makes it sound like an insult.

Smiling angelically she nods. "Or are the controls too difficult for you? I know freighters can be confusing for inexperienced pilots - "

Poe looks around the room for something to throw at her and resorts to reach out to slap her instead. But her reflexes are fast and she's out of reach immediately, giggling. "Now, now, no violence."

Growling again he shakes his head. "Can't you ask Snap?"

Hands on her hips she stands just outside of Poe's reach. "I did, he's flying as escort with me."

Poe's face is all annoyed surprise, most of it terribly exaggerated. "You ask him to fly as your escort and me to be your copilot?" He turns to Finn and points into her direction. "Have you ever seen something like that?"

All Finn can do is shake is head. Of course he hasn't. But it's interesting to watch, to say the least. 

"Well, even if I had asked you - would the greatest pilot the resistance currently has deign to tell me what ship he'd fly?"

Looking slightly sheepishly Poe falls back in his chair and raises his arms. "Don't go there!" 

But she's not done yet. "Oh, no? What about your beloved black thing? It would do, maybe, if it could fly at the moment."

"It can't?" It's the first time Finn says something on his own accord, but he's suddenly curious. Even smiling now Jess looks like a predator ready to pounce. 

"Oh, maybe it can. But maybe it's lacking something. How many wings does an X-Wing have, Finn?"

The question is rather unexpected, and he knits his brows together. The pain in his body is forgotten. "Uhm, two - or four, depends?"

She nods, pleased with his answer. Then she points at Poe. "And how many wings does Black One currently have?"

Poe throws up his hands in defeat and sinks back in his chair. "Three-and-a-half. I'd like to point out that it happened while I shot a corridor for you and watched your tail vanish into safe hyperspace while being nearly grilled myself." 

She nods solemnly and returns into his vicinity. "And we got quite a spectacular landing out of that, too. Taking your duties as a Commander seriously, were you. Well, I'll help you fix it these days. If you help me get that damned freighter into space today. Seriously, six hours alone in hyperspace and I go crazy without my astromech or your endless yelling over the comms. Come on, help a team-mate out."

Grunting he pushes himself out of his chair. "Screw you, Pava. I always take my duties seriously, if you remember. When's take-off? But I do have to eat before we leave, otherwise I'll gnaw my arm off halfway through. Or your arm. Or whoever comes close enough."

She smacks his upper arm and suddenly looks happy. "Knew I could count on you. I'll walk you over to mess." 

Turning to Finn she waves and smiles. "Sorry for taking your company away. He'll return to you, I'm pretty sure. Faithful he is, our man." She winks and Poe looks like he's got a toothache. Then she almost skips out of the door, waving to Finn a last time. 

Poe remains in the room a second longer, standing next to the end of Finn's bed. "Sorry. There's a lot going on here." The tiredness from his features seems to seep into his voice suddenly, and he looks like he should rather sleep for a few days instead of helping to pilot a freighter through space. 

Finn tries his best to smile. He isn't quite sure what happened, but it was strangely exciting. He isn't used to these emotional conversations, this banter and joking. He will get used to it in time, he thinks. Or at least he hopes so. 

Patting his feet through the blanket Poe turns to leave. "Alright. I'll see you soon. Get better, yes? I forgot to ask you how you're feeling." He seems annoyed at himself for this slip, but Finn just smiles in return. 

"Better, I think." 

And it isn't even a lie.


	3. I was fortunately desperate and turbulently innocent

When his wounds are healed enough to hold together they discharge him from the medical centre. The meddroid checks on the stitches one last time, hands him a small jar of bacta and shoos him away. The stitches will dissolve in time, they tell him, the strings holding his skin together made from material that will decompose inside his body once it isn't needed anymore. Sometimes he wonders if he's been made of the same material, waiting to slowly fall apart as soon as nobody needs him anymore.

He is handed a stack of clothing and pulls it on. It's rather nondescript, but better than the black things he wore after he pulled his white armour off in the desert heat on Jakku. They have been discarded, probably, because he hasn't seen them for a while now. He doesn't ask for them. The light grey tunic is nice, he thinks. He has never had to decide what he wants to wear, not in his whole life, and somehow it feels good that right now he doesn't have to. He's simply glad that the soft clothing is neither white nor black.

They tell him that the pain will linger for a while, even when his wounds will be completely healed. With two vertebrae replaced with cool metal his spine is stable again, probably more so than it has ever been. But his spinal cord has been scraped by the lightsaber, and nerves take a very long time to heal. He is encouraged to take it slowly, report to the meddroids in case anything hurts more than it should and perform a physical therapy regime they hand to him. There is nobody who can talk him through the exercises, although in the first week a droid will make sure he doesn't exhaust himself. He can't bend over, he can't lift anything heavier than a datapad, and he walks at the pace of a lame bantha. But he's alive. Or something like that. 

The hydraulic doors to the medbay glide shut and he's alone. It's only then that he realises he has no idea where he's supposed to go now. 

"You are Finn?"

He nearly jumps at the voice to his right, turns around too quickly and needs a lot of strength to keep his face unmoving. He cannot show any pain, though he doesn't quite know why. 

The young man next to him fidgets on the spot and is visibly trying not to stare. He's wearing the olive green uniform he has seen before, with a large patch showing the red flaming symbol the Resistance uses on his arm. Finn has never seen him before, but he doesn't remember anyone besides the limited faces he's seen at his bedside anyway.

"Sorry. Yes, I am."

There's nothing to apologise for, yet, but somehow it seems appropriate. The young man nods. 

"Great. I have orders to bring you to General Organa. She wants to see you."

Nodding Finn tries to smile and then simply follows him down a confusing maze of corridors down towards the main control room. He's been there before, and feels sudden happiness at remembering something, at least. 

There's the usual noise of military personal discussing important issues in the spacious room. Various members of the Resistance stand around, and there's a blueprint of something projected on the spot in the middle of the room where the last time he was there the Starkiller's layout had been circling. Droids are whirring through the room, mechanical noise is coming from everywhere, and everybody seems to wear at least some kind of weapon. It's chaotic, but it feels good somehow.

General Organa is talking with a few members of a species he has never seen before. He and his guide wait patiently until she notices them, apologises to her direct conversation partner and says something. He - or she? - nods, salutes sharply and the whole group takes their leave. 

She's smiling as she makes her way over to them. 

"Thank you, Terry, You may go."

The young man blushes, for some reason Finn can't quite understand, salutes and vanishes quickly. Her warm eyes settle on Finn. 

"It's good to see you up and about. How are you feeling?"

Something in him really wants to salute, but he feels that it would be the wrong thing to do. He isn't one of her soldiers, after all. But at least he can take on a better stance. Fighting against his aching back muscles he pulls himself in something that would almost count as attention. Phasma would have kicked him thrice for his sloppy form. General Organa, however, shakes her head softly. 

"Be careful with you back."

He will never get out of this confusion, it seems. 

"Yes, General."

He's used to shouting titles. Yes, No, yelled while running up and down ramps, through corridors, along fields. Yes, Sir, yes Captain, yes. Yes. His voice is a little bit too loud and carries through the control room. A few faces turn towards them, understand what is happening and turn away again. He feels his ears suddenly burning. 

She puts a reassuring hand on his arm and leads him over to a bench where she almost forces him to sit down. It feels more intimate, he realises. He's so embarrassed he doesn't know where to look, so he stares at his hands. Her hand still rests on his arm. 

"Do not feel bad, you will learn to acclimatise. If that is what you want. Since you will need a few more weeks to recover I'd like you to be our guest for a bit longer. If you haven't decided yet about your next step, of course. You are free to leave D'Qar on your own accord."

He tries to keep his voice down and then doesn't know what to say and stays silent. He simply nods. Should he return her smile? He just doesn't know how to interact with superiors without the protocol he had drummed into his mind. Talking to equals, yes, that somehow worked. Talking to Poe works, at least. He simply uses the voice he had developed for low conversation in the bunks at night, and it seems to do the trick. He still doesn't understand most of the mocking banter Jess tries to pull him in, but he's working on that. But with a General? 

Then he realises she's waiting for an answer. 

"Sorry! I'm sorry. I haven't decided yet. I would like to stay a bit longer, yes. Please."

She squeezes his upper arm and continues to smile. 

"Don't apologise, Finn. You are doing great. You're very welcome here. There's just one thing I need you to do."

And then she launches into an explanation that he's seen secrets the Resistance is very keen on protecting, and would he mind swearing into her hand that he won't betray them? Assuring him that that wouldn't automatically make him a member of the Resistance at all she looks at him, still smiling, but a bit more stern. 

He immediately agrees. 

It's over very quickly. She takes his hands into hers and he promises not to give away any secrets, endanger nobody and, if he decides to leave, won't sell any knowledge. His voice is maybe a bit too fierce, because he would never betray these people, not after what they have done for him. 

His head is a little bit dizzy afterwards. He's never sworn an oath before. There was no need to, really. As a Stormtrooper he had been property of the First Order - and it's engraved into him - and property can't swear. Or betray it's owner, until it can, and then things get complicated. 

She sends him off quickly afterwards, telling him to report to their Quartermaster, describing the way. He tries to say something about Han Solo and how he's so very sorry. But her eyes remain sad even though she's smiling, and then she turns around and heads away before he can say anything. 

He's on his own. 

The corridors are a maze, but he keeps her description in his mind, repeating it to himself. He ends up at the office of the Quartermaster, who turns out to be a female Shozer, a species he can at least name correctly. Her dark eyes are very awake, and her voice carries easily, although she's not even reaching up to Finn's chest. Lucky for him she uses basic with him. 

Handing him a few more items of clothing, a chipkey coded to various doors in the base and a map of the planet she doubles the number of his current possessions with ease. Then she flicks through a large file on her datapad.

"We've had a steady influx of refugees volunteering in the past weeks, so room is tight currently. I had no idea where I could stash you, to be honest. Lucky for you - " she taps on the holopad with one of her fingers - "someone helped out." 

Then she gives him a room number, a five-digit-code and tells him in which barrack he will room. He thanks her profusely, which apparently confuses her, and she nods and has turned back to her work before he's even out of the door. 

It turns out that the map isn't helpful, because the base isn't even on there, and he stumbles around for almost an hour before he finds the barrack the Quartermaster had pointed out. His back is burning and pain is cursing through his legs when he punches the key code into the door with the appropriate number. 

He knows who is his roommate before the door slides open and reveals the room. The barracks are too obviously home to the pilots, with it's close location to the hangers. He passes by many open doors, seeing flight paraphernalia in some rooms, orange suits thrown over chairs. Nobody seems too concerned about privacy, and every room holds two bunks at least. From some corners voices carry down the hallway. 

His new room is simple in it's basic layout. On each wall a small bed is fixed, white sheets and sturdy blankets that look very military in a dark grey hue. Two closets, a table with two chairs underneath the window. Above each bed a single shelf. A door leading to what Finn suspects is a bathroom. One side of the room is completely empty, seemingly waiting for him. He carefully discards the things he is carrying onto the nightstand, next to the small lamp already sitting there. On the bed a holopad is placed on the pillow, and next to it, neatly folded, is the jacket he had thought was gone for good. 

The leather is soft in his hands, warmed by the sunlight that is falling through the window. The long tear in the back has been stitched, carefully and with great workmanship. It seems clean otherwise, no races of blood, snow or desert sand left. It smells freshly aired out, and he can't believe he has actually sniffed it when he lowers it again. 

Get a grip, he tells himself. He just doesn't know what he could hold onto to make it work.

Above him a ship is gliding into the base, the familiar sound soothing on his frayed nerves. Sitting heavily down on the bed - no, his bed - he gives the room - no, his room - a once over. 

There is not much to see. What he highly suspects is Poe's bed is made with a bit less precision than he own, the pillow not perfectly angled up with the blanket. He would have gotten a good dressing-down for that from Phasma without doubt, but then from everything Finn has seen so far he knows that Poe wouldn't have lasted a single day as a Stormtrooper. Mostly because he would have probably shot his superior and then staged a dramatic, hopeless escape before lunch, a thought that makes Finn smile for a reason he can't quite understand. He tucks the images away with certain plans to return to them some other day.

The room is surprisingly empty considering Poe must have been living there for a while now. He doesn't know how long the Resistance has been based on D'Qar, but can't have been for less than a year. 

But nothing particular catches Finn's eyes. There's a holopad on the nightstand, next to the same lamp Finn has on his. The closet doors are closed, and it probably holds clothing and not much else. The shelf above his bed has a few carefully stacked parts that look like they belong into an engine, a pair of blue flight gloves, a box holding Finn does not now what, and a small model of a X-Wing someone had took the trouble to paint to look like Black One.

Looking around he catches the gleam of a white pad on the floor plugged into the wall, obviously a charging station for a certain BB-Unit currently not in sight. But beyond these few things that make sense when brought in connection with Poe there's nothing.

He doesn't know what he expected, though. Troopers didn't own personal items, either - that was the way the rules phrased it, 'personal items'. Whatever that was supposed to be. But Resistance member aren't troopers, and he's got a few glimpses of other rooms on his way in, packed rooms, with people owning stuff. But Poe, it seems, doesn't own stuff beyond parts of an X-Wing and a droid. Which is still more than the things Finn has, which amount to a jacket, a holopad that isn't his and borrowed clothing. And a map where most buildings on the planet aren't marked on.

The pain in his back is now pulsing through his legs. His body growing heavier by the minute he realises that making his way over to the room might have just been the only thing he's going to do for that day. Taking off his boots takes a long time considering he can't bend over and simply pull them off. Acrobatics have never been his forte, but somehow he manages to get the obnoxious footwear off his feet. He doesn't bother with his socks after that. Moving the holopad from his pillow to the nightstand makes him grit his teeth. The movement intensifies the pain his body, and he's tense when he finally sinks back against the pillow. 

For a moment he keeps the pain at bay with perfectly timed breathing. It's a tried and true trick every trooper knows, helping against everything from pain to fear to hopelessness. His mind latches on the rhythm, focusing on the soft movement of his chest and lungs. He willingly concentrates on the soft pressure of air, pushing the pain to the edge of his consciousness. 

He falls asleep over this exercise.

When he wakes up hours have passed. He feels slightly wrinkled, but sleep has done his back good. The pain seems to have subsided to a low hum in his bones, a faint shadow of what it's actual size. Stretching carefully he takes inventory and decides that his body will be capable of getting him up again and carrying him over to the bathroom. 

Carefully hoisting himself into a sitting position he notices first that he has slept with the jacket clutched in his arms, and secondly that the charging station is now inhabitant. BB-8 sits on the white pad, silent like a sleeping person. He doesn't know why, but he feels as if he should tiptoe around the sleeping droid, a feat he can't quite manage due to the fact that he can hardly walk without holding on to something. 

But he makes it to the bathroom, slowly finding balance in his steps. Using the loo, washing his hands and face immediately makes him instantly feel more human. He looks around shyly once, but there's nothing in the bathroom he wouldn't find anywhere else, nothing he isn't supposed to see. Shaking his head his curses himself under his breath. What had he expected? Secret stashes of soap used only by X-Wing pilots to add that extra dash of swagger? Somehow that thought makes him blush, and he quickly dries himself off with one of the clean towels he finds neatly placed next to the small sink and returns to the room. 

He's greeted by string of incoherent beeping and whirring. Apparently tiptoeing around the sleeping droid hadn't helped, and the small thing is wide awake and sounds absolutely excited. 

"Hey, hello."

BB-8 beeps and Finn has no idea what it's saying. But BB-8 is expressive in movement and cadence of it's beeps, especially for a thing without a face. Within seconds he understands that the droid isn't going to electrocute him for invading Poe's space - at least he's lucky for once - and instead wants something else. Finn just has no idea what that could be.

He remembers Poe crouching down and patting the small dome serving as a head on the droid, but he can't get that far down. So he reaches out clumsily, and to his surprise the droid whirrs closer and moves under his hand so the patting can commence without Finn having to bend down. For some reasons he's touched by the understanding. 

He has to learn binary, though. Quickly, if possible, because as soon as the droid has been sufficiently patted it starts to roll around Finn, apparently telling him something incredibly exciting which to Finn sounds like an alarmclock running amok. BB-8 has to roll all the way around him and start to nudge him forward for him to get what it wants. 

"You want me to come with you? Okay. Uhm, yeah, why not. Okay."

A thrilled string of beeps tells him he's right, and the speed with which the droid rolls off. The door slides open just in time and then the droid whirrs down the corridor and is gone. Finn has to take a moment longer to do the boot-acrobatics again, in reversed order. He's successful, but out of breath before he even leaves the room shrugging the jacket on.

BB-8 is not a very patient droid, and Finn learns it the hard way. Waiting at the end of each corner it beeps at Finn to hurry, looking more and more flustered when the human just can't keep up with its pace. 

When they reach the hangar Finn is out of breath. The ache in his legs is intense, reaching all the way down from his lower back through his thighs into his knees. Sometimes he thinks it even goes into the soles of his feet, setting them on painful fire. Pausing by the door BB-8 has already vanished through he takes a moment to catch his breath, leaning his weight into the doorframe. Somehow this whole recovery process isn't as easy as he had thought, and it slowly dawns on him that maybe this is now going to be his new reality - out of breath and wasted from five minutes on foot. Great. 

But then he hears the hiss of a ship's engines in the hangar beyond the door, and curiosity pushes the panic down and away. Inhaling once more he pushes himself off the doorframe and walks into the hangar. 

It isn't as big as he had expected it. He is used to structures housing Star Destroyers, or at least those ships themselves. Everything seemed larger in the First Order in general, from the size of their troops down to the size of their ships. But he's seen what these X-Wings can do on Takodana, and he won't underestimate the fragile and beat up looking constructions any time soon. Still, the hanger is small. He can say that without devaluing it, he feels. 

There are four X-Wings parked in the open hall. From his place at the rear of the hall he can see the large open front, with parts of the sky and views over the tarmac. The ships are parked in a diamond shaped formation, with Black One taking up the front space. The ships to its left and right are showing the usual worn-down Resistance livery, and the one in the very back is covered with a large piece of dirty looking canvas cover. Behind it two small A-Wings are parked. Next to the walls shelves hold equipment for the mechanics, tools and spare parts for the ships, hooks for helmets and a broad variety of things. There are posters up, too, torn and dirty, showcasing the heroes of great air fights won in X-Wings. The air is heavy with the smell of fuel, engine oil and metal being welded. 

Only few people mill around the hangar, mostly moving in and out retrieving and replacing things, and nobody cares for Finn. BB-8 is already gone, headed straight for the black X-Wing parked in the front, and Finn follows after taking his time to look around. 

Even drawing closer he immediately sees what Jessika Pava had meant when she teased Poe for having only three-and-a-half-wings left on his ship. The jab describes reality rather well, and even on a first glance he sees that Black One has a lot more than just that bit of damage. It's the only ship in the hangar with its s-foils unfolded into attack position, and the right lower wing is mostly gone. The fuselage seems to have taken quite a bit of damage, too, and he can see one of the engines looking burnt out. The ship sits on blocks instead of its own landing gear, closer to the ground then usual. It seems unlikely that Black One still flew like this, but apparently it did and even touched down safely. But then Finn is inclined to believe that Poe could fly a burning tincan if he had to, even though his only flight experience with Poe ended up with them getting shot down. But then everybody has to have bad days, right? 

There's someone wearing a flight suit climbing around on the ship, and Finn feels the smile spread on his face. He hasn't seen Poe awake since a few days, and not at all since at least two. It's time that they can finally talk. 

BB-8 is already next to Black One, sitting next to one of the blocks and looking up expectantly. Beeping it tilts back to look upwards, and Finn tries to walk a bit less sloppy and more secure. 

As he draws closer to the black X-Wing he notices that walking fast isn't really on the list of things he's good at right now. But he's just in time crossing behind the ship parked on the right side to Black One to see Jessika Pava climb down from the upper wing she was perched upon. Perplexed he comes to a full stop, willing the smile on his face to stay put. 

She jumps the remaining few meters, landing gracefully and waving in Finn's general direction. Then she kneels next to BB-8 and pokes the Droid with an outstretched index finger. 

"You, my little pinball, are late. I've been waiting for you for half an hour now, and I don't remember telling you to go stay away that long. Where have you been?"

BB-8 looks straight at her and rattles of a string of beeps that sound very vindicatory. She frowns, and pokes it again, almost causing it to topple over. 

"That's a lame excuse. You were supposed to fetch him, not cuddle up next to him! Leave that to someone else. And now come on, I need you to plug into the ship and give me readings for the lower shield generator. I reckon he took a good hit there, but I need data until I can fix that. Can you do that?"

Beeping again, BB-8 makes a nodding motion and rolls under the wing towards the back of the ship. Jess follows the droid, picks one of the cables trailing the ground up and waits until BB-8 opens a small door in its lower body. Plugging the cable right into the droid she watches for a moment while BB-8 starts to whirr a bit louder than usual. She pats the upper dome gently, then gets back upon her feet and returns to Finn. 

"Hey hero, had a good sleep? Sorry for the delay, but the readings will take a while and I want BB-8 busy."

He nods and tries to smile. She looks relaxed, dressed in a dirt covered flight suit rolled down to the waist. The long arms are knotted together in the front, secured with a rope, and she has tucked a variety of small tools into the make-shift belt they provide. Rey could probably name very single one of these tools and set them to work, but for Finn they all look remarkable alike. But Pava is a good mechanic, he knows - because Poe has told him, and she's fixing his ship and that must mean something - and knows all these things, of course. She looks like a mechanic, too, with the dark tank top she's wearing and her arms covered in grease. Her hair is braided out of her face and safely pinned away so it can't bother her. 

"Done with staring?"

She folds her arms in front of her chest and grins wildly, making sure Finn understands her pun. He almost sputters anyway. The staring is becoming a problem, he has already realized that. For someone who grew up wearing a helmet suddenly having to control his face and eyes is a difficult thing to do, and one he's apparently rather bad at. 

Staring at his feet he murmurs an apology, only to receive a slap on the shoulder in return. He almost hisses with the pain searing through his back, and she pulls her hand back immediately. 

"Shit, sorry. I forgot about your back. And don't be silly, you can look to your heart's delight. Ain't no harm done. Guess you haven't seen many grease covered flygirls around your troops."

He shakes his head because it's true, though mostly because he hasn't seen any pilots at all when he was a Stormtrooper. Pilots lived separately, were trained separately, fought under a different command chain and never mingled with the infantry troops. Especially not those doing sanitation work. There were female pilots, he was sure. There were female troopers all around the ship, in every possible function. But they didn't wear things like the woman on base did. And they didn't have that kind of hair. 

She's still grinning up him. "Okay. So, sorry for pulling you out of bed. I just wanted to check on you and couldn't get away, so I asked BB-8 to see if you had made it back. Sorry for not picking you up from Medbay, too. Had to do a check with one of the other ships here, couldn't get away. Don't tell my Commander, right?"

Finn nods, and tries to make a stern face. "I'll try my best to guard your secret." He considers telling her how he'd sworn secrecy to General Organa just earlier this day, but decides that this information is too sensitive to share just yet. The ground he's standing on is too instable. Still. 

"Where is Poe, by the way?"

Registering that he understood her small joke she points at the ship behind her. "You mean, where is the guy who's left me with a totally fried X-Wing and went planet hopping instead?"

Nodding again Finn tries to mirror her grin. It works, to his surprise, and she shrugs. 

"Don't know, top secret mission and things." Watching his face fall she immediately pats his arm. "Don't worry, nothing too wild. Apparently there is someone who wants to talk to the General, and she needed someone to send out who can talk. And talking, as we all do know, is your Commander's speciality. He'll be home very soon, maybe tomorrow. Depends on the ride he can get, because this baby isn't going to fly for a few more days."

Remembering Poe sassing not only Kylo Ren but also half a trooper squadron every step of the way from Jakku back to the Finalizer Finn can only nod. Poe can, in fact, talk. Maybe a bit too much at times.

"And you are helping with, uhm, the ship?"

She pats the wingtip close to them, pulls her hand back and inspects the dirt streaks on her palm. "Actually I volunteered. Flyboy is insanely picky with whom he lets touch his one and only love, but I passed the test with flying colours and am know fully entitled to get into her intestines." She mock salutes him with a screwdriver from her make-shift belt. "No, I'm messing with you. He's been gone for a while and he will need this ship up in the air once he's back. Man has to sleep, and my own darling is fixed and ready to go already. So I promised I'd see what I can do. Wanna help?"

He knows nothing about X-Wings, but he wants to, if just to see what the hulking steel beast Poe looks at so tenderly is actually made of. But he's been standing for far too long now, and his back reminds him of his injury rather forcefully. 

But Pava is strangely tuned in to his slight swaying, and before he knows what is happening he's been pushed into a chair she's ostensibly made appear out of thin air. It's an uncomfortable steel chair, but he doesn't mind. Giving him a few minutes to pull himself together she then offers to walk him back to his room. He declines with shame tugging on his mind. Why does he always have to be a burden on anyone?

Sensing his string of thoughts Jess immediately changes course of action. Before Finn knows what's happening he's busy sorting her tool box into different shapes, catching tools she throws down after having climbed back up onto the upper wings and reads a list of checks she needs to perform from a very crumbled very dirty piece of paper with almost illegible handwriting on it. BB-8 comes rolling up to his chair after it unplugs itself from the ship, and Finn reads the long printout the droid suddenly produces to Jess while she balances on the very top of the ship, bent over it fumbling with what she tells him is a shield generator. 

Watching her, reading numbers and listening to her endless rambling on the difference between the deflector shield generator and the deflector shield projector - apparently totally different elements stuffed into the rear end of an X-Wing, who would have thought - Finn starts to slowly relax. Piece by piece the tension seeps out of his body until he notices that the fear that had made a nest in his stomach seems to have shrunk remarkably.

The sun is setting outside, making way for the various moons circling D'Qar. Inside the hangar Jess flips on the lights, and buried halfway into Black One's half-fried hyperdrive begins to tell Finn stories unlike anything he's ever heard before. Her tales are interrupted with the excited chatter from BB-8, who is rolling around the ship in excitement when not plugged into it or giving readings to Finn. The little droid seems to correct or interrupt Jess whenever her embellishments are too amazing, and she translates dutifully and sometimes even agrees with the droid. They only have one solid conflict of opinion when Jess tells Finn a story about the adventures of the X-Wing pilots flying for the Rebellion and describes Wedge Achilles as the greatest X-Wing pilot of all times. The comment sends BB-8 into a fit of outraged beeping, and Jess nearly falls off Black One laughing when Finn politely points out that, maybe, the droid is onto something there.

She grins wildly, dropping the piece of burnt metal she's pulled out of the hyperdrive to the ground and gestures towards the droid. 

"You are partial, my friend. I know for sure that you told my astromech that more than half of Damerons' flying grandeur is because of your calculations."

BB-8 makes a indignant sound and immediately whirrs off towards the ship parked right next to Black One. It stops right underneath it, tips back and shoots a string of angry beeping upwards. Nearly doubling over with laughter Jess throws another piece of metal downwards. 

"No need to try, pinball. My darling is sleeping in my room. But I'll pass your comments on. Never knew you knew that many cursewords."

Shocked BB-8 whirrs around, beeps again, and then rushes off towards the back of the hangar. Finn feels slightly guilty for grinning at the droid's exasperation and straightens himself on his chair.

"So, is BB-8 right? And who's the better pilot?"

Jess catches her breath, steadies herself up on the ship and points her screwdriver towards Finn. "Oh, please, ask Poe that question. And do it while I'm there, yes? It will be hilarious."

With the odd feeling that this might just be a trap he nods, and then just in time catches the screwdriver she throws into his direction.


	4. I was crawling around in my head in the haze of a trance

His body and his thoughts have turned on him. Like traitors are wont to do they picked the worst possible moment to desert their posts, leaving him flailing, frantically trying to come up with a plan B. But there is none. 

First his body. Struck down by the lightsaber, patched up together by surgery and bacta, and now barely holding together. He's used to treat his body like a tool, a well groomed machine, functioning when supplied with the correct fuel. All the years of physical combat training have left him with a certain sense of entitlement. When he moves towards his opponent in a hand-to-hand-combat moment his reflexes take over. Fighting is his second nature, evading punches, throwing them himself, taking hits as if they are nothing. Pain is nothing he can't work through, nothing unfamiliar. 

Unfamiliar is instead the complete refusal of his body to follow his command. The lightsaber sliced through the muscles in his core, and it seems that with the neural connections all his mental connections were torn as well. 

HIs strength is gone. He can walk, barely, if he has a good day. He can sit on chairs for more than thirty minutes. But there are so many scenarios that leave him frustrated, close to either tears or a fit of rage he doesn't ever have the strength to go through with. It can be something small. Bending down to tie his shoes, pushing open the heavy metal doors found on the base, lifting anything. Physio is excruciating, a carefully drawn-up regimen of things he has been able to do since he was ten and now can't. His new spine isn't yet fused with his muscles, can't yet absorb the shocks that come with quick movement. He can't run, he can't take punches, he is supposed to be careful about falling down or crouching. It renders him useless for any kind of battle situation, useless for fighting, useless for anything life has ever consisted of. 

He does his therapy regimen, which mainly consists of easy exercises that leave him fighting for air. He can watch his body shrink, muscles slowly vanishing. A strong voice in his head tells him to run, duck, fight, but when he tries the pain sears up through his body and blinds him temporarily. The weakness feels like a second wound, gnawing at his flesh and his soul.

The second traitor is his mind. It rebels against his body and never wins, an endless exhausting circle of defeat. He is tired, and afraid. In company he can hardly relax for a second, carefully mapping out his every word and step, gesture and smile. The ground he is standing on is unstable, and he wonders if one day a chasm will open and simply devour him, closing above him, leaving him to rot in eternal darkness. Company is difficult, and exhausting, even if the only company he really ever has are BB8 and Jess. The others keep their distance, though Snap seems friendly enough, and some other pilots stroll in and out of the hangar and always make a point to wave to Finn, too. BB8 is rolling besides him more often than not. The droid, too, is alone with Poe gone to someplace nobody wants to disclose to Finn. 

BB8 is also the company he has at night, when he lies awake in his bunk and the little droid sits on its loading pad, powered down, offline. He wishes he could go offline like this, too - plugging himself into the electricity outlet in the wall, and then simply fading into darkness with a slight whir and a sighing beep. 

But he can't, and at night his mind reveals it's true terrifying power. His body is tired, but his mind is hyperalert and reeling. The silence is almost killing him. 

He has never slept alone, not one night in his life so far. In front of his inner eye long rows of bunks stretch out in the twilight, bright lights flickering here and there. Everyone has his or her place, appointed by number and designation. He always sleeps in one of the lower bunks, maybe because he's been in trouble too often for being a bit too emphatic. Too nice, as Nines once said, spitting the word right before FN-2187's feet. So, he was too nice, and now he sleeps close to the ground, which is annoying because troopers climbing up to higher bunks step on his thin mattress and disturb his sleep. He can cope with that, though. He's a good sleeper. The rustle of thin blankets and hard pillows, body parts moving, someone slightly snoring, he doesn't mind. He always falls asleep to the silent cacophony of breath and cough, ship engine and the soft moving of the universe around him. 

Except that one night where he listened for something in the dark, because someone had said that the scruffy looking man they had picked up on Jakku was actually someone important, someone who would need questioning and couldn't go right out of the airlock. FN-2187 needed to report to Reconditioning the next morning, and they whispered around him that the man they had caught was a rebel and a pilot and that Kylo Ren was interested in him, and he just couldn't sleep without seeing how the man had looked up when they had pulled him out of their transport shuttles and onto the Finalizer, with the eyes of someone who was seeing something that took his breath away and was keenly aware that he would never get to tell anybody about it. It had been a sleepless night when FN-2187 had come up with his suicidal plan and then gone through with it, and if he had known that he'd never find sleep again he maybe would've thought twice about pulling the bloodied man from his chair and pushing a blaster into his side and then saving his life by letting him safe FN-2187's own. 

But that's what he has done, and as if the First Order is trying to punish him even though he is beyond their grasp he can't sleep. Instead he is awake, waiting for his thoughts to attack him, maul him, drag his deepest fear from their hiding places. At night his back aches and throbs, neural lightning all the way down to his feet. The room he's slowly getting used to seems to change around him. BB8's silent form on the charging pad becomes threatening in it's unmoving stillness, the shelves seem to move, everything willing to turn on Finn any moment. He's exhausted every morning, the combination of pain, frustration and tiredness forming a cocktail that could lead anyone close to the edge of a complete breakdown. 

He soldiers on nevertheless. There's something nice in every day, and he takes extra care to note these little things. He discovers he likes custard bread for breakfast, this complete useless food with hardly any nutritional value he'd never gotten a taste of before. Stromtroopers are nourished so they can die gloriously, nothing else. There is no space for custard in this scenario. But amongst the Resistance there is decidedly space for custard and cream, and fruit he's never seen before. It's slightly scary to try new things every day, but somehow he enjoys it more than he fears the novelty.

The next best thing to trying new things is helping Jess with the X-Wing. She's been flying in and out of base with Blue Squadron almost every day, but they do mostly short runs to ensure the Resistances sovereignty over their air space around D'Qar, and in the late afternoon she's almost always back and working on Black One, spurred by the ambition to have the ship flying again by the time Poe is back. 

It seems she'll reach her goal even fast than that. There are only a few spare parts missing to get the hyperdrive back online, and she's done with replacing the damaged lower wing far sooner than Finn had expected. He had watched her weld the large replacement parts she had gotten from he doesn't know where - probably a spare-parts storeroom somewhere that would make Rey squeal with joy. He hasn't seen it yet, but one day he'll find out and show Rey when she's back. 

When she's done with the wings she specifically requests his help. She has done that before, mostly making him hold lightweight items and tools, careful not to exhaust his back. He's very much aware that she doesn't need his help, not at all, and merely indulges him with the illusion of being needed. He's too exhausted to not willingly throw himself into it. 

"Can you climb up and sit in the cockpit for a moment? I think it should work now, and I want to retract the S-foils and close the wings. Need someone to flip a switch. You're up?"

He is. There is no need to ask him twice, and although his back protests sharply while he climbs up the small ladder and hoists himself into the tiny cockpit space it feels exhilarating, and just a little bit as if he's pretending to be someone he's not. 

"Hey, you look good up there. Familiar with that jacket." Jess winks at him, standing on the lowest step of the ladder, and jumps down from it. "Okay. Turn the main energy circuit on, big black button on your left."

The buttons and switches in the cockpit look well-used, worn down, without any labels. But there's only one big black button to his left, and he pushes it carefully. The engines shudder to life behind him. It's not the loud howling he's used to from listening to the ships taking off, not yet. Black One hums like a massive beast slowly waking up, the vibrations from the power thrumming through his body, vibrating in his bones, just a hint towards what could happen if he knew how to handle the power he invoked. 

Jess walks around the ship, leaving enough space between her and the engines. 

"Look up, blue switch above you!" Her voice almost drowns in the noise, but he finds the switch and flips it with only marginally shaking hands. The whole ship seems to move, the hydraulics reacting to his order. He can feel the centre of mass shift as the s-foils fold, neatly forming two closed wings instead of four. He hears Jess howl in her victory, and looking down he sees her punching the air and patting her own shoulder while BB8 rolls around her triumphantly chirping. 

Giving Finn an enthusiastic thumbs-up she yells the necessary combination to turn the engines and main circuits off again up to him, and he follows her instructions carefully. With a final sigh the ship falls silent again, once more just a metal frame hunching on the ground of the hangar, with its promise of weightless flight fading away with the last hiss of the engines.

For a second longer he sits in the cockpit and stares at the chaos of buttons, switches, control sticks and instruments. He has no clue what half of the displays mean, recognizing only marginally the part that must be the weapons system, looking not too different from the one he used in the TIE fighter himself. 

But even with the complicated technology around himself he can't push away the thought how barebones the whole thing is, the cockpit uncomfortable and cramped, even in comparison to the TIE fighter or the Falcon. He wonders briefly how they do it, these pilots, hurling themselves into the air in these things, into battle, nothing between them and death but a thin layer of metal, the power of their engines and their own skill. It looks like nothing compared to the firm stability of the ships the First Order employs, and he remembers what Jess has told him about the battle above Starkiller base, how they had dived into the damn structure, and he's glad he was busy being sliced open and didn't have to see the fragile X-Wings dive into the trenches. 

Climbing down the ladder he feels his hands unsteady with adrenaline he has no reason to feel. Jess holds her hand up for a high-five, and as he inspects her workmanship and praises her with BB8 rolling at his heels he wills his heartbeat to slow down. It doesn't for hours. 

Two days later he's lying on his bunk in the afternoon, burnt out from his exercise regime and the two push-ups he tried to do on the floor of his own room. His back is screeching at him, calling him all names he's ever heard in his mind, and his hands flip through the holopad and its vast net of useless and important information to replace the yelling in his mind with something else. He's been reading a lot, but it just seems all so very unfamiliar that sometimes he finds it hard to remember what he reads. 

BB8 is gone, and when there's a sharp knock at the door he doesn't even stand up. Calling out he props himself up on his elbows, winces at the pain and tries to smile at Jess as she waltzes into the room. Hands on her orange-clad hips she grins down at him and throws him a mock salute. 

"All's okay with you, hero?"

He will never get used to her call him that, but she seems to genuinely enjoy it. Returning her smile he points at the holopad. 

"I tried to look up the battle of Yarvin. I heard about it, of course, but from a, uhm, different angle."

She nods, drops her hands and looks around the room. There's this thing with Jess - she can't stand still, nor even for a moment. He wonders how she can sit in her cockpit for hours and hours staring at hyperspace flying past her ship, surrounded by nothing but dark emptiness and no space to move even an inch.

"So, I want to ask you a favour."

"Of course!" Curiosity makes him nod and smile. He'd do anything for anyone at that moment, as long as he doesn't have to run, open heavy doors, fight or carry anything. Otherwise, sure. He could stare any enemy to the ground easily right now. It's pathetic how the feeling of being useless claws at his skin. 

In the meantime Jess spots the tiny X-Wing above Poe's bed, picks it up and pretends to let it fly through the air. She looks at the model with a genuine joy that immediately makes Finn suspect that she might have been the one who gave it to Poe in the first place. He doesn't have time to question her along that line, though. 

"Great. I'm flying out tomorrow morning and need a Co-Pilot to keep me entertained. No flying experience required. I have to pick - " she grins at the model - "well, something up. I got special permission to take you, because I think you're suffering from cabin fever like everybody in your position would. So, just say yes."

He hasn't been off the planet ever since his return from Starkiller, so it's theoretical possible that he could catch cabin fever. He hasn't, though, being too busy hating himself and trying to understand the suddenly chaotic structures of his brain. Still he nods and grins. If she took the effort to get a special permission on herself it must be important, and if it's important he has to help out. 

Delighted she returns the X-Wing back to the shelf, slaps Finn on the shoulder and instructs him to be on the tarmac, ready for departure early the next morning. Then she's gone, and he forgot to ask her where they are actually going. 

He doesn't sleep that night, either, but at least he now can tell himself that it's because of their upcoming mission. Staring at the ceiling above him he imagines the universe whizzing by, planets becoming nothing more than glowing dots in the vast blackness, going fast and faster until these stars become nothing but a single, beautiful blur of light.


End file.
